


Into the limbo

by Wolfinshipclothing



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Injury, Cutting, Dialogue Heavy, Dissociation, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Social Anxiety, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, connie has issues alright, freeform connverse, she is a teen! let her be traumatized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfinshipclothing/pseuds/Wolfinshipclothing
Summary: I need to hurry up, she kept thinking.Any minute now, her dad could come home early, tired from a lazy dayshift. Or her mom could drop with the excuse she forgot something, and use the opportunity to check out on her daughter. Her independent, smart and intelligent daughter. Then Connie would have to explain to her what said daughter was doing sitting on her bed, in her bathrobe, fresh from the shower, holding a blood-stained shirt over her forearm, with a pair of scissors resting at her side.The same pair of scissors that went missing a month ago, by the way.A Connie-centric story about trauma, self-stem issues, and relying on your friends.
Relationships: Connie Maheswaran/Steven Universe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Into the limbo

**Author's Note:**

> Ho ho ho to everyone! I brought you guys a gift... ITS ANGST, lol!
> 
> Seriously... This is a heavy story. There is literal mentions and depictions of self-harm and unhealthy coping mechanisms. 
> 
> The idea for this fic came to me because... well... its been a rough year for me. I mean, its been a shit year for everyone, everywhere... I just didn't do well this year, mentally or physically. I was feeling very low one day and decided to put it all into words and write my problems into some character i like. Initially, i picked Steven, but i discarded him quickly. There are enough fics of Steven harming or engaging in unhealthy behavior, with Connie helping him get on his feet. And not enough fics were its the opposite.
> 
> To clarify, this is NOT a Connie-bashing fic at all. I love Connie. Its just that there was never enough time in the show to develop her character more, and how she was affected by everything that happened on the show. A lot of authors have already write their interpretations of Connie and her trauma; i am simply coping what those authors have wrote, mix it with my own ideas about it and condensed them into a 6000 words fic.
> 
> I have not much else to say except that this fic helped me. Writing about someone going through a hard spot, and getting better (even if only slightly), was really cathartic. I hope this story have the same effect on you, folks.
> 
> Enjoy.

_“You might imagine that a person would resort to self-mutilation only under extremes of duress, but once I'd crossed that line the first time, taken that fateful step off the precipice, then almost any reason was a good enough reason, almost any provocation was provocation enough. Cutting was my all-purpose solution.”_ **—Caroline Kettlewell,** "Skin Game".

* * *

Connie's mind was beyond herself; far, far away, where she couldn't reach it. Her body was heavy; lead weight held together by rusted tin bolts. And Connie was trapped inside it, with no company but the stinging pain on her arm and the weight of the shirt she kept against it.

_How long have I been like this?_ She wondered. It felt like hours. Her legs were like paper; where she not sitting on her bed, she would have already plummeted to the floor.

_I need to hurry up_ , she kept thinking. Any minute now, her dad could come home early, tired from a lazy dayshift. Or her mom could drop with the excuse she forgot something, and use the opportunity to check out on her daughter. Her independent, smart and intelligent daughter. Then Connie would have to explain to her what said daughter was doing sitting on her bed, in her bathrobe, fresh from the shower, holding a blood-stained shirt over her forearm, with a pair of scissors resting at her side.

The same pair of scissors that went missing a month ago, by the way.

Connie lifted the shirt. The bleeding had stopped. The cuts were all dry out now —probably had been for a few minutes— but they still shined with a disgusting color. The marks from last time were underneath; red rivers over dried out canals. Feral slashes over healed scars.

Connie dropped her head onto her hands, elbows on her knees, and applied pressure over her temples. That _usually_ helped her think.

"Stupid," she said with a sore voice. "Stupid, stupid. You always do the same."

Connie's harming habit have come, less like a metaphorical descent into madness and more like a —also metaphorical— walk down a descending staircase, where each step would disappear behind you, leaving you no choice but to go further down, into the dark.

It gradually became a routine. If she'd messed up a test, she would spend all night studying the subject. If she'd snapped at her mom in a moment of hormonal-fueled rage, she would skip dinner —breakfast too, if possible. If she'd been so absorbed in her own world she'd ghosted her friends, she would train with her sword until her palms were all blistered. Small pinches of pain she could administer, in measurable doses and only when it was justified.

It was astounding how quickly she lost sight of what was measurable and justified.

But the real aggravating part of it, in Connie's opinion, was _how much of her time it takes._ It'd taken her a whole morning of self-loathing for the static to take over her body. Once it did, she lost control and started attacking her outer forearm with swift, brutal slashes, instead of the controlled cuts she usually administered. When she saw what she'd done, she panicked and reached for her neatly folded white shirt _. What a waste_. She had barely bled a few fat drops, yet it was more than enough to ruin her favorite shirt.

She'd been quiet since then, holding the soon-to-be-rag over her arm and trying to grasp her slippery psyche at the same time. She _could_ feel her body, but she wasn't in it. Her brain was working itself to death, but she'd no control over its thoughts. Like Schrodinger's cat, it was like she was there and not there at the same time. Alive and Dead. Connie has come to call this dissociative state 'the limbo'. And she was knees deep in it now. And it must be past noon already!

_If I could make my butt to get up and clean up this mess, maybe I could sit down and have some work done. Otherwise, this would be a lost day._

The thought loomed over her. _A lost day._ She couldn't let that happen. Now she just had to find a way to get out of the fog of her mind…

The phone ringed. Connie as much as jumped from the bed, dropping the shirt and scissors on the floor. She reached for her phone on the table.

BISCUIT

_Just left the hotel and hit the road. The engine sounds like it's about to choke to death, tho. I hope it doesn't break before reaching New Orleans. Call me when you have a break! Love you!_

Connie sighed; her heart's palpitations echoing in her ears. How ridiculous! Jumping to grab her phone as if she'd been caught. Like some bad horror movie; someone on the other side would said 'you have been seen' and then hang up, leaving Connie panicking like a fool. Ridiculous!

She grabbed the scissors and the shirt with one hand, the phone with the message she ought to respond in the other. She glanced at the bed; the sheets were wet, she ought to change those. Her arm was still stinging; she ought to treat the wounds. Also, she ought to get properly dressed. And her test was still on the desk, waiting for her…

Connie groaned and gravitated naturally towards the bed and felt into it. She'd never had trouble compartmentalizing before. She also had never been in the limbo this long before, however.

She found herself thinking of Steven; living on the open road, driving that tank with radio he calls 'car', doing whatever he wants, going whenever he wants to go —previously checking his rigorous list of places to go. Being whoever he wants to be.

This made Connie mad. _She didn't want to be mad._ She rotated her phone in her hand several times, thinking.

_I_ could _call him_ , she thought. _You are supposed to reach out when… in situations like this, right?_

Her stomach grumbled with acid reflux. She _definitely_ didn't want to talk to Steven —nor anyone else, really. But hearing a friendly voice could be what she needs to get back on her feet.

She pressed the name on the screen and put the phone on speaker. It rang. _Please don't pick up, please don't…_

Schick.

" _Hey Connie! What's up?"_

"Hey Steven. Are you busy?" she asked.

" _Not at all. The road's pretty calm. I think there is a storm coming though; there are some mean-looking clouds above me,"_ said Steven, a bit uncertain. _"Are you on your break?"_

_In a manner of speaking._ "Yeah. I just thought… you know, checking out on you."

" _Making sure I didn't pick any new hitchhiker? I'll let you know I haven't done that since Miami Beach,"_ he laughed. _"Seriously though, you should have seen the motel I crashed last night. 'Sir-sleep-a-lot' was the name, and it was great. There'd a real-looking imitation sword and shield above the bed! That's the stuff you won't see in any fancy-brand hotel."_

Connie smiled briefly. Despite everything that'd happened to Steven —and he really broke the limit of shit that could happen to a person—, he was still the same kind-hearted boy that got emotional over the simpler stuff.

" _But what about you? You never tell me what's up,"_ said Steven and Connie perceived the sourness. " _How's cram school going?"_

"It's going," she said flatly.

" _That's good. How about Lion? I haven't seen the little rascal since forever."_

"You know him. He comes and goes as he pleases."

" _Right, right."_ Silence. She wished Steven would stop asking questions and just talk. " _Connie, are you alright? You sound a bit under the weather; and I am the one about to be soaked._ "

Steven's attempt at humor was ignored; the red lines over Connie's arm caught all her attention. There was not a discussion inside her head. _There was a whole fucking debate_ , with a hundred people committee and a chairman that was chewing her nails as she waiting for the lunch break.

"I don't know," she said, choosing simple words.

" _What do you mean? Did something happen or…?"_

"It's just one of these days, you know?"

Steven's silence asked her to elaborate. The cuts of her arms seemed to shine brighter, mocking her for her weakness.

"I'm doing badly," Connie said quickly. "I'm feeling _real_ bad right now and I don't even know why," she added, only half-lying.

There was a long mmm on the other side of the line.

" _Alright._ _I'm going home,_ " said Steven.

Connie's heart started to race. "You can't do that. You are driving... a-and your schedule-"

" _I'll just park on a side of the road. There are some nice trees I can park under. Then I'll call Lion and be there in a flash."_

_No, no, NO._ "Steven, you really don't have to."

" _It's no problem at all! I want to be with you-"_

"Steven, I _don't_ want to see you, OK!" Connie bolted upright, sitting on the bed. "Nobody asked you to do anything! Why do you always have to make things about yourself?"

Silence. A gust of wind came from the window, chilling Connie to the bones. She squeezed her left hand until it hurt. The scissors were still there. She glanced at her right arm; smooth and clean of any mark. Connie was right handed, but she could make an exception.

The thought alone shook her to her core, making her open her palm. The scissors felt with a clink-clank. She brought the phone closer to her face.

"Please," Connie muffled a choke with her free hand, "please don't go. Can you just talk to me?"

More silence, and there was a moment in which Connie knew 'this is it, my best friend hates me forever'. But then there was a sliding noise, and the rumble of dirt being removed. There was also a distant boom; a storm was about to drop.

" _I stopped the car,"_ said Steven. _"I'm here for you, if you want."_

_Great_. It's not like that'll deepen Connie's guilt.

"I'm sorry."

" _Don't be."_

"I'm so sorry," she repeated. Dark walls were closing around her, and the only source of light was her phone and the person on the other side. Obstinate tears rolled down her cheeks. "I'm such an idiot."

" _Please don't say that. I know…_ you know _that's not true,"_ Steven measured each word as he spoke. _"Can you tell me what's wrong?"_

"Nothing," she said, "I'm just being a big baby, that's all." No answer. He's not gonna make it easy for her, is he? "I'm mad. _Really_ mad."

" _Mad at me?"_

Connie grumbled as an answer. She heard Steven's struggle to swallow.

" _Right. Not about me."_

"Exactly," she said, although it was a half truth.

"I'm mad at myself," she proceeded. "I'm mad because I fail at everything I do." Connie took several breaths. Here comes the bomb: "I flunked at my practice college entrance test."

More silence.

" _Go on,"_

"Aren't you gonna say its stupid?" she asked cautiously. She'd expected a scoff, a snicker. Maybe even some laughter.

" _I'm listening,"_ Steven insisted.

Connie tried to put some verbal sense in the ball yarn that was her mind.

"I _really_ flunked it, you know," she said, waiting —hoping— for a reprimand. "Even the stuff that I've studied and re-studied."

" _But it was just a practice test. It doesn't mean anything."_

"It means _everything_ , Steven," she cried. "If I'd taken it today, I would have gotten a garbage grade."

Connie cleaned the tears away with the back of her hand. The gust coming from the window was making her shiver. Her wet hair and the soaked sheets were not helping either.

"It like everything I had done, all the hard work I put into it was for nothing," she said. "Everything feels so pointless."

" _I don't think it was,"_ said Steven, carefully. _"Even if you failed, you still practiced for the real one. Don't give up. Going to college was your dream."_

"Was it? I don't really know." Connie bit her lip. "No, that's a lie. I _do_ want to go to college. I just wonder if it's worth it. I mean, what's the point of trying so hard if I fail anyway? Do you have any idea how many nights I lost for this? O-or how many times I had to put my friends on hold because I was busy studying?"

She stopped. She felt as if her breath was stolen from her.

" _Of course you do_ ," she sighed. "And it was all for nothing. I failed at this as I fail at everything else."

" _What is '_ everything else' _?"_

Her blood was freezing cold, as was her answer. "You know."

There it was again; the roar of thunder, followed by the sound of a million drops falling down. It was starting to rain somewhere.

" _Connie,"_ said Steven, on the verge of shattering. _"Have you been thinking about Homeworld?"_

Connie clenched her free hand, her teeth, and everything else that required physical exertion.

"I'm sorry," she said.

" _Don't be."_

"I know I have no right to feel bad about it. You are the one who suffered the most from it-"

She was cut by her own throat shutting down, and for a moment only tiny hiccups came out. There was a blinding, white rage inside her. It commanded her to grab her sword and slash, lunge and cut all her problems away. But she didn't. She stood still and cried.

" _But I was there too_. I saw what White did to you and I couldn't do anything." Connie gasped for air. "I trained _so_ hard for nothing. When you needed me I… I failed you." She stopped to gasp and clean her tears. "H-how can I know I won't be a mess in everything else I do, that I won't flunk on my first year of college? Studying was the only thing I was good at and… and I'm not even good at it anymore and just…"

She stopped to let the tears roll freely. It was too much; too much weight, too many tears. Everything was in the air now. All her failures, all her fears, like an enveloping toxic cloud around her; it'd always been there, but now someone else could see it. In the middle of her wailing, she caught Steven's concerned voice.

" _Connie, can you hear me?"_

It could be easy to hang up now, forget this ever happened, and call back when she was strong and put together. 'Hey Steven, sorry about that, everything is better now'. But Connie couldn't do that —not to him. She mumbled a reply.

" _Alright. I want you to breathe with me, OK? Can you do that?"_

_Well, that's easy for him to ask. He's not the one hyperventilating._ And to think many times she'd said the same, when Steven was going through a panic attack. How the turntables indeed.

She knew the instructions to the letter, but she coordinated them to Steven's voice. Four seconds inspiration. Hold it for seven seconds. Eight seconds exhalation. They repeated it until every corner of Connie's mind was occupied with this routine.

" _Feeling better?"_ Steven asked.

Connie noticed she wasn't crying anymore and with one last sniff she said: "A bit."

" _Good. Now I want you to listen,"_ said Steven. _"First, just because I was the one who was attacked doesn't mean I got the monopoly on trauma."_ He stopped to see if his joke caused any effect. _"What I mean to say is, that day was… it was a literal_ hell _for all of us. Maybe more to me than to the gems, but it was so for you too because, like you said, you were there with me."_

" _Which brings me to the second point: nothing of what happened in Homeworld, or that happened to me, to us, was your fault,"_ Steven said, firmly and fluently, like a practiced speech. _"And there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. I know you are mad because you couldn't take a swing at White's giant nose…"_

Connie laughed. She imagined Steven raising a triumphant fist into the air.

" _But_ you did _help me. You carried me to… to me! If I'm alive now, it's because of you. And I should…"_ Steven stopped. Connie could see him, hand on his mouth, trying to hold the tears back and be the rock she needed. She knew that feeling too well. _"I should've told before how much you did to me. You saved my life back then, a-and then you saved me again, months ago, when I got corrupted."_

Connie gasped. Steven never brought that topic unprompted, and he _never_ called it for what it was. It was always 'the incident'.

" _You were there for me since day one,"_ Steven laughed dryly. _"Actually, I should be the one apologizing. You had to go through all of that because of me."_

"I wanted to do it," Connie retorted. "I wanted to go through all of that _with_ you."

" _That doesn't make it right. It wasn't fair."_

Connie huffed. They were scratching the surface of a deeper conversation. Because Connie was mad for wanting to go to Homeworld so bad, and for all the times her life was in danger before that. And she was mad at her parents —what were they thinking? They shouldn't have let Connie run around with a sword, fighting a war that wasn't her own; they should have locked her up until she was eighteen. Damn, she was mad at the whole Universe for needing to be saved. They were kids! Stupid kids who didn't knew better than to take such a task over their shoulders.

And deep down, in a corner she dared not to look, she was mad at Steven. Because from the first day they meet, _he chose her_. To be his friend, his partner-in-crime, his… And in an even deeper place, Connie was mad at herself. Because she had chosen Steven too, and if it came to it, she would do it all again. Back then, in the middle of the chaos, with the fear of death and the threat of the destruction of the Earth as her everyday bread and butter, _life made sense_.

But now the war was over, and the books Connie studied so much felt as unreal as any fantasy novel. How do you go back to being normal after having a destiny?

Connie let her head fall back and softly touch the wall. She was far too tired to shine light on those darks corners. She just wanted to rest. She was half-way napping when Steven's voice brought her back.

" _Connie? Connie, are you there? Please talk to me."_

Connie slapped herself awake. "I'm here Steven. I'm fine."

" _Are you sure?"_

"Yeah," she said, as convinced as anything. "How about you?"

" _Don't worry about me."_

"But I do."

" _Well I… I worry about you!"_ Steven protested. _"So I guess we are in a loop here."_

That comment wasn't particularly funny, but Connie started to laugh; a short, weak laugh that grew up to be a roar. On the other side, Steven laughed too.

" _Oh man. This sure feels familiar doesn't it?"_ said Steven, and eased a bit on the laughter. _"I guess you are better at making me feel better than I am doing it for you."_

"Oh, don't sell yourself so short. I _do_ feel better. A little," she confessed. "I'm sorry you had to deal with me being dumb. I don't know what came over me."

Steven was quiet for a while. When he spoke again, it was with the clearness of a professor giving class.

" _Connie, do you remember one of the first things Dr. A. told me when I started therapy?_

"Life sucks?" She heard Steven breathing raggedly, trying not to laugh.

" _That_ is _the first thing,"_ he said in a short breath, _"but I mean the second first thing."_

Connie scratched her head. "The thing about the pond?"

" _The frozen lake,"_ he corrected. _"She said that, for people with depression —not saying you have it— or have gone through some trauma —again, not pointing fingers—, anxiety is like a frozen lake. Every day you bring new problems to the lake; little, everyday stuff that's not too heavy. Then some days you bring heavier stuff, and the ice starts to crack, but you don't notice because you hide the heavy stuff under the lighter stuff. Finally one day, you bring a new little problem and you put it on top of the pile. You know what happens next?"_

"The ice breaks?"

" _It breaks,"_ said Steven, like a satisfied lecturer _. "It breaks and you fall in the frozen water, with all of that heavy shit you have been hiding."_

Connie's hand grabbed the front of her bathrobe. She was still not used to hearing Steven Cutie Pie DeMayo Universe curse —even if she was the one who taught him the coolest words (besides Amethyst, of course).

"I remember the story now," Connie scratched her head, feeling the hard knots of her hair. "I always thought it was a bit complex as a metaphor."

" _My point is-"_

"Why not use a house of cards? Every anxious thought is a new card, and as you pile them up, the house loses stability. Finally, one day, it just falls under its own weight," Connie explained with renewed vigor. "See? It paints a much clearer picture."

"The point _, Miss Wiseguy,"_ grunted Steven, and Connie could see him folding his arms. " _Is that if you don't want the ice to break-"_

"Or the house of cards to fall."

" _Or the house of cards to fall,"_ he conceded, _"you have to deal with that heavy stuff before you are overwhelmed. You don't need to do that_ now _,"_ he added, predicting her complain. _"But at some point, you will need to talk to someone. Your parents or your friends… Or I can give you Dr. A.'s number. She knows everything we went through."_

"That ought to save me some time," she said. "Maybe she'll give me a discount card of 'Friends of Steven Universe'."

" _See? Now you are being positive,"_ Steven laughed.

Connie smiled sadly. "What about you?"

" _I'll always be here for you. By phone, video chat, or to visit you… If you want me to,"_ he whispered that last part.

"Only if you promise to not turn into a Kaiju when we start exposing my inner demons."

" _Ha ha,"_ he said robotically. _"I'll assume by your sarcasm that you are the same old Berry now."_

Connie mulled about it for a few seconds. The cloud of anxiety was slowly banishing, and she no longer felt the claustrophobic walls closing around her.

"Yes, I'm good now. Thanks to yo- _aaah_ " a loud, long yawn took over her. "Sorry. Guess I'm more worn out than I thought."

" _Yeah, I can tell… Have you really not been sleeping at all?"_

"Unless you count passing out of tiredness as sleeping," she joked.

" _Ah,_ " said Steven. " _Have you been, well… you know?"_

Connie didn't answer. She knew what he meant, but she'd no voice to say it.

" _Connie, have you been hurting yourself?_ "

"This conversation is hurting me."

" **Connie** _ **.**_ "

The phone vibrated and got hot to the touch, before cooling down real fast. Connie's head vibrated too, like a snow globe being shaken. _Steven's control over electric devices had been growing._

She lifted her arm to look at the cuts; they still stung, although she hasn't been paying attention to it. All the slashes were dry and had a dull color.

_Fuck it, why not?_

"Just a few cuts," she said flatly, "with my mom's scissors."

There was silence for a while, but Steven's was still there; his breath was ragged and odd. Has he turned pink? Did Connie throw him into a panic attack?

Finally, he spoke: " _Connie, I need you to do me a favor."_

_Oh boy, that doesn't sound good at all. "_ What is it?"

" _Throw those scissors away._ "

Connie pursed her lips. "Steven, I can't do that. My mom would be mad," she said, although it was a poor excuse. If Connie cared about her mother's feelings, she wouldn't have stolen the scissors in the first place.

" _I know. I don't pretend to tell you what to do,_ " he said, measuring his words like a baker measures flour, " _but it's something that helped me a lot. I mean, when I was in a bad place, I would go into these blank moments when I wasn't thinking at all."_ Connie nodded. He was talking about the limbo. _"When I started therapy, I was told to try to be more conscious of myself. More present. So when I felt I was, you know,_ getting in the mood," Steven groaned at his own choice of words, _"I would take a step back and do something different. We can't always control our situation or our mood or even our actions, but_ we can _make small changes to have some power over ourselves."_

The way Steven spoke in plural said that he wasn't doing vain motivational talk; he was talking from a place he'd been in… and maybe still was. Connie remembered sitting on Steven's bed, trying to cheer him up to eat or step outside and get some fresh air. She also remembered coming home, locking herself in the bathroom and taking a long shower while she cried.

Connie held onto that thought and sat on the bed. She picked the scissors with her free hand and put that memory in them. She also put the memories of White Diamond, the monsters' attack on Beach City, the arguments with her mother. All her anger, her insecurities, her fear of not knowing who she was— she grabbed all of it and put it into a ball, one she was carrying in her throwing hand. She extended her arm all the way behind her back. And when the wind blew the curtains opens, she propelled her arm forward like a whip.

The scissors —and metaphorical ball— broke free of her hand, made a straight line and finally flew out of the window; out of sight.

Connie stood still, catching her breath. The first thing she noticed was that her chest, while still swelling with anger, felt notably lighter. The second thing was Steven's voice calling her from the phone. The final thing she noticed made her scream:

"Holy shit!"

" _What? What happened?_ " she heard Steven calling to her.

"I threw the scissors out of the window!"

"… _WHAT?_ "

Connie dashed towards the window, holding her bathtub with her free hand, and stuck her head outside.

" _Is everyone ok?_ "

"Yeah… yeah I think so," said Connie with a relieved breath. "The street is desert at this time. Anyway, I think I can see the scissors. They felt right by the trash can, so maybe I accidentally stabbed a rat?"

Steven was hyperventilating, but he took a break from it to scoff at her. " _Now is no time for jokes, missy! Oh man… you could have killed someone! Why did you do that?_ "

"Because you told me to, you dumb-dumb!"

" _I didn't tell you to throw a sharp object out of the window, you dumb-dumb!"_

Connie shook her head. "Forget it, I don't want to fight." She leaned against the wall and let gravity slid her to the floor.

" _Me neither,_ " said Steven. The sound of rain was quieter now. " _At least did that helped?_ "

"Yes. Almost killing innocent bystanders always cheers me up."

" _That's my girl,_ " Steven laughed and so did Connie, albeit weaker.

Still, she felt better. Her body was recharging energy quickly and her mind was emerging from whatever black hole it had been hiding in.

"I think I can go on with my day now," she said and she meant it.

" _Are you sure?"_ Steven asked. Connie reaffirmed her decision. _"Well, that's awesome. So… would it be cool if I drop by and check on you?"_

Connie's heart started to race up again as the anxiety came back. _Check on you._ Like she was sick and she needed to be taken care of.

"I don't think that's a good idea right now," she said, firmly. "But later. Definitely later. I'll call you."

" _But I… OK. Alright, w-we'll talk later then._ "

Steven sounded really bummed out, but Connie could pay it no mind now, lest she wanted to feel down the whole again. "Thanks for everything. And I'm sorry I made you stop in the middle of a storm," she said.

" _Oh it's not so bad. Kinda weird though,"_ said Steven. " _You know, usually you hide from the rain, lock yourself inside and look at it from the window of your house. But I'm under it right now. The sky is falling around me but I'm as dry as clean clothes. And, I don't know, it's beautiful. It makes you appreciate everything there is, even stuff that's supposed to be ugly. Does it make sense?"_

The words struck something deep inside Connie, but whatever meaning Steven was trying to transmit was ignored. She was not in the mood for lessons right now.

"I know what you mean," she swiftly said. "So I guess I'll talk to you later."

" _Alright then. Please be safe. And call me."_

"I will."

" _Ok… I love you._ "

Connie blushed. "Goodbye." She cut the call. She should have said something else, something more. She didn't know why she had been in such a rush to hang up.

She just knew saying 'I love you' was easier when they weren't dating.

* * *

With one long, invigorating breath, Connie stood up. She stretched her arms over her head until her bones cracked, then she bended and touched her finger toes until her legs were burning.

With the sudden rush of adrenaline, thinking became easier. The rage was gone and her chest didn't feel as heavy. Connie has left the limbo, at least for now.

She looked for her phone. Her last study break was one hour ago. Most of that time had been spent talking to Steven. So much time —hers and his— wasted in vain…

_Alright Connie, compartmentalize. There's a lot to do. What comes first?_ She asked herself. Well, her red, stinging arm would be a good starting point. She headed for her bedroom's bathroom and closed the door shut.

The bathroom was still mildly warm from the shower she took. The first aid kit was where she left it; resting over the sink, opened. It's where Connie usually hid the scissors. She hung the bathrobe on a perch and checked the cuts on the mirror. They ran deeper than Connie's usual handiwork, so she applied the process she used for her training injuries. Soap and water to wash the wounds. Dry well, apply antiseptic to prevent infection and then bandage the whole thing, from the elbow to the wrist. She'll have to change the bandages after tomorrow at least.

Some petroleum jelly could help the wound heal faster and prevent scarring, and Connie's mom had some in her first aid kit but she discarded that thought. Explaining to her mom how she got these wounds was out of question.

Connie was about to put the kit away when an idea hit her. She brought the bandages out and applied them over her right arm —her clean, unharmed right arm. There; now if anyone, be it her mom or her friends asked, she could appeal to a training accident. And if her mom wants to check the wound herself, Connie will show her the right arm. Her mom will comment on how well the injury had healed, or she'll simply believe Connie was overreacting to a minor rash. In any case, she'll be none of the wiser.

Connie looked at herself in the mirror —naked, except for the bandaged arms. Her reflection smiled sadly. _You think you are so cunning, don't you?_

With that done, she left the kit over the sink and tiptoed into her cold room. She went to the wardrobe and chose a long sleeved shirt, some jogging pants, and a sweater.

Next thing were the sheets. They were soaked; perfect to catch pneumonia. Connie started to take them off. She stopped and instead she left her room —with the same feeling as Robinson Crusoe leaving his island—, and headed for the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of juice and drank it like an old man in the desert. She poured another glass and headed back upstairs.

Once in her bedroom, she took off the sheets, rolled them all into a ball and poured the orange juice over the sheets, with extra care as to not wet the mattress. The textile absorbed the juice like a sponge. Finally, she went back downstairs, threw the sheets into the dishwasher and set it on. In the unlikely event her mom questioned Connie about her dropping a glass of juice on the bed; Connie only had to point at the orange colored stains.

_They'll disappear after a few washes, anyway_. Ironically, the marks on Connie's arm might last longer. She entertained the idea of putting her shirt to wash, but she scratched it off. Being a doctor's daughter, she knew blood stains were a pain to get rid of.

Satisfied with what she had accomplished, Connie's heart gave a little thud as she approached the door. She didn't feel like going for a walk, but she'd to recover the, sort of speak, crime's weapon. She stepped outside and walked aimlessly around the sidewalk for a minute, looking for the scissors. She found them on the floor right next to the trash can. Five inches left and they would have landed on top of the trash. It really makes your mind think.

Or someone else's mind. Not Connie's. She didn't have time to metaphors.

She knelt to pick the scissors. And then she saw them; or rather, _they_ saw her. On the other side of the street, a young couple crossed sights with her. They keep their glance on her for less than five seconds before walking away, laughing. It was enough to throw Connie down a hole. Eyes seemed to materialize out of thin air, staring faces, judgmental glances; all of them pointing at Connie. All of them knew what she'd done. _She'd been seen._

Connie dashed inside the house and slammed the door behind her. She felt to the ground, short of breath. That couple must be on their way now, totally oblivious of the effect they caused on Connie, and she can't blame them; she couldn't predicted that either. Her social anxiety had been tame for so long, Connie thought it was a thing of the past. That's another thing to scratch out of her accomplishments list.

Nevertheless Connie had the scissors in her shaking hands, and all she wanted was to put them away.

She stood up and moved around the house exhausted. She picked a pair of clean sheets and went back to her room. She locked the door, shut down the windows and closed the curtains. She breathed out loudly. Now she was unseen and _nobody_ could judge her.

She set the clean sheets on the bed. A strong scent of lavender hit her. Finally, she went to the bathroom; put the scissors inside the first aid kit, under everything else, and put the kit on the back of the cabinet, until next time.

_Next time…_ now that was an upsetting thought.

With everything else done, she just had to get rid of the shirt. She had second thoughts about washing it, since throwing it away would be complicated. Feeling a headache incoming, Connie opened her closet and threw the bloody rag inside. It wasn't like her to postpone things, but… who was she kidding? This is standard Connie's stress dealing procedure.

Connie looked at everything she'd done, and felt at peace for the first time that day. Then her eyes felt onto her standing mirror.

_Oh no, this won't do,_ she thought, meaning her hair. More specifically, the crow nest that had taken over her head and that she usually called hair.

She grabbed her blue hairbrush. Her hair was so entangled the regular ministrations won't do, so she attacked it with brutal brushing motions. In the meantime, her mind kept producing images. Steven under the heavy rain, checking the soaked engine that broke down when he stopped to talk to her. The disappointed glance of her mom when she finds out all the scheming Connie went through to hide the truth. Her own hands shaking with anxiety as she takes the real test and she realizes she doesn't know any answers.

She set the brush down. There. Now the image in the mirror was presentable —although some days, Connie wasn't sure if it was really hers.

"I'm alright," she said, with a voice that felt alien even to her. "I'll be fine. I'm a warrior," she added, more convinced with each word.

She _was_ a warrior. Maybe she'd lost her center, but she could find it. She could be strong again. Once she gets a grip of herself and gets into college, everything will be alright.

Right? Right.

With this new resolution, Connie walked to her worktable. Her failed test was still there. Next to it was the half-done new test she had been working on when the static became too much.

Now, she _could_ keep working and pretend all of this never happened. That this was just a very long study break, that everything she did was normal and healthy. It's what she was expected to do, right?

Once again she thought of Steven, taking time from his trip to sit down under a deluge to talk to her. Breathe with her, as if they were one.

Connie's hand reached towards the test… And then went left, grabbed the nearest book and dropped it over the papers.

_This can wait…_ she thought, uncertain.

"This _can_ wait," she verbalized defiantly to the World.

With that problem done for, she had a free afternoon. She tapped her chin —she hasn't had this free time in a while.

She picked her phone and flipped through the library. There was this reboot of 'Crying Breakfast Friends' that Steven had been bugging her to watch, but she'd been rain checked until she could pass the test. Maybe it's time to keep the study waiting. She shuddered at that inch of her rebellious younger self taking over.

She picked her earphones and lay comfortable on her fresh, lavender-scented sheets. Five minutes into the first episode and she was cackling and crying with a cartoon about animated fruits while her papers —her physical future— waited on the table. And they'll keep waiting until tomorrow.

Connie didn't know if this was a step forward or backwards. But a step's a step nonetheless; and she was still moving.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there it is. I hope you guys liked it, or at least you felt something with it.
> 
> Originally, i was gonna use this space to explain some of the stuff that i left open ended. But i think i'd rather let you guys reach your own conclusions. AND PLEASE, do share your thoughts about this. Your commentaries literally give me life!
> 
> Anyway. That's enough rambling for 2020. See you guys next year!


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